Kicking
by GatorGurl94
Summary: Krycek/Scully One sided UST


**Kicking**

**Author:** GatorGurl94  
**Category:** S/K, one sided UST  
**Feedback:** Please. Gatorgurl94  
**Spoilers:** Early Season 8, nothing specific.  
**Disclaimer:** All characters contained within are the property of Chris Carter and Fox.  
**Author's note:** A huge "thank you" has to RATales list Mom, Rachel, for lending me her ears and her beta and also to Savannah for hanging in there and being there from the beginning

I slip into the corner booth and wait. Part of me thinks she won't show, even though this isn't our first meeting and probably won't be the last. Not as long as he's still missing and I still have answers.

The waitress asks what I'm drinking without even looking at me. Water. No ice. No lemon. She nods, acknowledges my order with a bored nod. She drops a cocktail napkin on the table and vanishes. I glance at my watch. Scully is late. She's not usually late. The waitress returns with my water- ice and lemon. Jesus.

"You ready to order?"

"I'm waiting on someone," I tell her.

"I'll give you another minute." She spins on her heel and moves on to a more profitable table.

The restaurant is filling up, the din of voices becoming full-fledged clatter. I can't relax, wondering if this meeting is the one. The one where she comes in wired, signaling in the feds when she's heard enough. I recall our previous meetings and wonder why she hasn't ever done just that. I fold my napkin into a neat ½ inch square. I glance at my watch. Scully's going on twenty minutes; the waitress is becoming increasingly annoyed. I'm on my fourth glass of water and there is a line of people waiting to be seated.

"You sure they're going to show, mister?"

I toss her a dirty look.

"Let me know when you're ready."

I watch the door and wonder if something has happened. Wonder why she hasn't called to cancel, maybe she's stuck in traffic. I decide to give her ten more minutes. I wave the waitress down and order a coffee. Black. No sugar. That's my new addiction, now that I've quit drinking.

She comes through the door. Ten minutes after I said I'd only wait ten more minutes. She scans the room, locates me easily. Scully marches through the restaurant to the booth. She shrugs off her coat, tosses it into booth then slides in. She looks annoyed; then again she seems to be in a perpetual state of annoyance these days.

"I didn't think you were going to show." I say, setting the small square in my saucer.

She settles into the slippery seat, her eyes doing an angry roll. "Why wouldn't I?"

"You're forty minutes late. I don't appreciate waiting."

"Then you shouldn't have." She picks up the menu.

Our waitress materializes at our side.

"Can I get you something to drink?"

"Do you have caffeine-free diet coke?"

"No."

"Water then." Scully sighs, closing her menu. "Little ice and the lemon on the side."

The waitress' head bobs as she takes the order.

"I'll have your chicken Caesar salad with an extra roll." Scully hands her the menu.

"What about you, mister?"

I shake my head. "Just a refill on the coffee."

"So where is it?" She demands

"You know the deal."

She sighs again deeply, full of strain. She rests her elbows against the table.

The meetings are mostly business. She asks questions; I give her partial answers. Sometimes I tell her exactly what she wants to know. Always, I bring a gift; the only gift she'd ever accept from me- evidence. It makes her feel better, keeps her coming back. Best of all, it doesn't cost me a thing. It's inconsequential. They are just words. Words in a story I already know the ending to. She's never heard it before so to her it's still interesting, still unresolved. The words give her hope and make her feel useful and that's fine with me. In return, I get the pleasure of her company and sometimes even hostility free conversation.

Tonight, though, hostility is the only thing I'm getting from her. Must be the new man in her life. I wonder what he'd say if he knew she was consorting with the enemy, leading her own investigation without him. I wonder if she realizes how many of her old partner's habits seem to have rubbed off on her.

"Well," she says, impatient. "Anything?"

I shake my head, tapping the tabletop. She clearly doesn't understand that I don't give a shit about Mulder. Or truth. Or justice. Or revenge. I don't give a shit about anything-except maybe her, though I'm not at all sure why.

"You said you had something." Anger tinges her every word.

I dig a folder out of my leather satchel and set it in front of her, another day, another secret government program. She shoves it beneath her jacket without looking. She never looks until I've gone.

The waitress returns with her water, too much ice and a wedge of lemon, not on the side. Her tip keeps getting smaller and smaller. She drops two rolls unceremoniously in front of Scully.

"Your food will be right out."

Scully picks up a roll and tears it in two. She drops one half back onto the plate and peels open a pat of butter. She stabs at it with her knife, spreads the whipped cream over her roll. She's living on the edge tonight.

She eats and graciously allows me to watch. We don't talk. When she's finished she pushes her plate back. Dabs the corners of her mouth with her napkin then sets it back into her lap. She says nothing; she doesn't need to. Her expression says it for her. Let's get this over with. Suddenly, I'm tired. She watches me, waiting. I lean forward, digging into my back pocket, pull out my wallet and fish out a twenty.

I lay it on the table, as I gather my bag,

"Ninth Street parking garage, 3rd floor. 7:30 pm." I tell her.

She nods; I go.

I slip into my apartment, tossing the leather bag on the floor beside the door. I shrug off my jacket; toss it on the couch. I walk into the kitchen, making a mental note to have the maid come everyday from now on. When did I become such a goddamn slob? I fish around for a clean glass, fill it straight from the tap and drink. So damn thirsty these days. I hit the bedroom next. Undress and slip beneath the cool cotton sheet. It's only 8:30 pm. Haven't gone to sleep this early since I was fucking nine years old, but goddamn it! I'm tired. I contemplate masturbating, but only for a second. It's just not worth the trouble. I pull the sheets over me.

I wake up fourteen hours later. I remember nothing; I've stopped dreaming.

I pull the medicine cabinet in the bathroom open, scan the pharmaceuticals I've amassed. I pull out an anonymous container, pop two and move into the shower. My whole body aches. I'm rusting. That's what happens when you're put out of service. I crank the hot water full throttle and slip inside. I don't feel it scald my skin; I don't feel a fucking thing. Hot water washes over me. I tilt my head back, mouth open. The water spills into my mouth; I swallow.

I channel surf. I flip through magazines. The alarm finally rings-10:00 am- time for my medication. This must be what retirees feel like.

Introspection is not a luxury I allow myself often. Though, I admit it is something I find myself doing more frequently these days. I sit poolside fully clothed, watch neighbors I never knew I had, cavort in the pool I only recently realized was housed on the roof of my building and think about him. I should have killed the bastard earlier, while he was still worth something, still possessed power over the organization. A tall blond saunters by, smiles apprehensively as she approaches my lounge chair. I nod a greeting; she picks up the pace. I should have shot his fucking brains out.

I don't even like to think about how it did end. It's just too fucking pathetic. Frankly, it's undignified, completely beneath me to have terminated him in such a manner. There was so much more I should have done. The blond glances back at me from her own chair. God, she looks like Marita. The wrecking ball of my heart plummets into my stomach. I'm so fucking sorry, Marita. I should have done more. I should have made him suffer. I should have kept a souvenir-his forked tongue in formaldehyde. I manage a smile; she looks away.

It's been a week already, hard to believe. Seems like I'm losing time all over the place lately, the days spill seamlessly into each other, all remarkably alike. I can't be bothered with keeping track. I only need to know it is Wednesday. Wednesdays are the only days that matter. The nightly news ends with a story of hope and perseverance that is supposed to make up for the last 25 minutes of depressing shit they've been shoving down my throat. No matter, I have the most depressing news of all, but I'm keeping it to my fucking self -thank you very much.

Seven o'clock, time to get dressed. I push off the couch, move into the cubbyhole I call my office. I rifle through my worthless pile of paperwork, video and digital tapes. What to hand over today? More lab reports, more proof? I choose a file that might appeal to her. I move into the bedroom, scour through my closet for something just right. What to wear? Ever seen me in my one of my Saville Row suits, Scully? No, of course you haven't. Then again, a suit wouldn't be right, would it? Not for where we're going. I struggle with the decision for an obscene amount of time, but ultimately end up my same old uniform. No use pretending what I'm wearing will make a difference.

Tonight it's good old Elk Lanes in Elkton.

When I suggested this place, standing in the murky darkness of the Ninth Street parking garage, she actually laughed. Okay, maybe it was more like a sardonic chuckle. Point being, I got a glimpse of her neat little teeth and was immediately consumed with wondering how those teeth would feel on particularly delicate parts of my body. I watched her slip into her car, got into mine. I spent the entire car ride pondering the strength of her bite and the sandpaper roughness of her tongue on my skin.

The PA calls for clean up on lane 4. I stop scrutinizing the mechanically pressed perfection of my paper cup. Focus my attention, instead on my dinner date. Scully's not laughing now. She does though, have her lips pursed in a way that makes me wonder what they'd feel like puckered on my ass.

"You look bored." She says, sliding her empty cup to the side. She fiddles with the paper wrapping of her straw.

Bored? Oh god, no, Scully. How could I be bored watching you?

She licks her dry lips. Heat flushes through me, puddles behind my eyes. I shift in my seat. Take a sip of my water. She watches me carefully.

"What are you getting out of this?" She asks finally.

I run my fingers across the watermark left by my cup. What am I getting out this? I don't know. This seemed like such a good idea three months ago; now it just seems pathetic and pointless. She taps her latest gift with her index finger. Balls strike pins, crash like thunder in my ears. The hanger-like building is suddenly too warm. I tug at my collar.

Sweat beads on my forehead. Scully, are you hot? I rest my eyes on the curve of her neck. The crisp collar of her dress shirt is almost as pale as her skin. The temperature spikes another ten degrees.

"Where are you getting all this information?" She asks casually, as if she were asking the time.

I'm taken aback. Is that what we were discussing? Have I been sleeping?

She slings her right leg over her left, rests her arm on her thigh, her other arm straddling the back of the chair. Her foot bobs restlessly.

I watch her and wonder what her bare feet look like. I bet her feet are beautiful. She's always wearing such square-toed shoes; she couldn't possibly have bunions or hammertoes. Maybe next week I'll ask her to show me. My head starts throbbing.

"Krycek." She snaps impatiently.

Have I been staring? Shit. It's just that...

She sighs. "So, that's it for this week?" Softer, dare I say...concerned?

I'm in pain, doctor. Got any Percocet?

"I suppose so." Each word doled out with what seems like an incredible amount of effort.

She gathers her things up, tilting towards me as she stands. I get a good whiff or her. She smells like morning mass, like the comfort of a confessional, warm and clean.

If I confess to you all my misdeeds Scully, will you promise to make me pay? Promise to make it hurt?

She pauses, regarding me with her wonderfully cool eyes.

Promise to make me suffer? I think you'd know just how. I see it in those glassy eyes. You'd revel in destroying any part of me you could. Believe me, I'd revel in my destruction.

Her eyes widen.

Can you hear me, Scully? Are you offended?

She glances around.

Who are you looking for? I'm right here.

She clears her throat, touches her upper lip with her porcelain fingers. I mimic her, touching my own face. I pull my fingers back- blood.

I don't expect her to be standing outside the bathroom door when I emerge. Yet, there she is coat draped over her arm, waiting.

"Are you all right?"

What? I'm sorry, are you talking to me?

"Krycek?"

She's standing intolerably close.

"I'm fine."

She regards me skeptically. I dig into my pocket, pretending to search for my keys.

What the fuck do you care, Scully? You've got your file. Go.

She's not moving. Her quizzical eyes prod me for a response.

"I've been having trouble sleeping."

"I can't imagine why." She sneers.

"I don't think you should be driving." She says as we approach our cars.

I laugh.

"Why don't you come home with me then? Just to make sure I get there all right." I ask facetiously.

She leans against her sober Taurus. Is she actually considering it? Maybe she's estimating how quickly she can arrange for a SWAT team to be here.

"We go in my car." She says flatly.

I shake my head. "Sorry. I've no desire to end up in jail tonight. I think I'll take my chances and drive myself."

She glowers at me, yanking her door open. "Suit yourself."

"Scully."

She glares at me impatiently.

"Next Wednesday. Same garage, same time."

She huffs and slips into the car.

Wednesday. At exactly eight pm, her dark sedan pulls up beside my car. Ours are the only two in the east side of the garage. I lower my window; she follows suit.

"Get in." I never take my eyes off my reflection in the windshield.

Her car door opens and slams shut. The keyless entry remote beeps as she locks her car. I unlock the doors, watching her shadow cross my rearview mirror. Her dark form yanks the passenger side door open. She drops into the seat.

"Where are we going?"

I nod towards the cap I've set on the dash.

"I'm not wearing that." Firm. Clear.

I kill the engine, turn to face her. She doesn't flinch.

"I can't have you knowing where we're going."

She picks the wool cap up, inspecting the poorly stitched eye sockets. She sticks her hand inside, holding it up for me to see. "Not really good with the needle and thread are you?"

"Are you going to put it on?"

It's only the eyes that I've sown shut; the nose and mouth are open. It could be much worse. It could be one of those leather jobs with zippers for eyes and place for me latch the leash onto. Then again she'd never go for something like that, would she? She glances at the ski mask one more time.

"Where?"

"Somewhere worth your while."

She looks back up at me, unconvinced. "What makes you think you know what is worth my while?"

"I'd like to take a stab at it." I chuckle.

Her brow furrows.

She looks delicious. Her hands folded neatly in her lap, mask covered head held high, little tufts of auburn hair peering out from underneath. Her tongue darts out between her lips, disappears. I want to pull over and just watch her sitting there.

"So, where is this place?" She asks, seemingly unfazed by the situation.

"We're almost there."

"That doesn't answer my question." She tugs at the bottom of the mask.

I roll to a stop at a red light, daring to glance over at her. I want to yank that mask off of her. I want this to be more than business.

"Scully?"

She turns to face me, red crisscrossed stitches for eyes. "What?"

Can I trust you? I want to know.

The light turns green.

I pull into the underground garage of my building; tell her to take the cap off. She tugs it off; brushing sweat soaked strands of hair off her forehead and hands it to me. I accept it apologetically.

The apartment still sparkles from the maid's recent visit. I had her spend a little extra time today. I don't want Scully thinking I'm a slob. I let her in and she heads straight into the living room. She glances around the room, inspects the books on the coffee table, finally she turns to me.

"Yours?"

I nod. Surprise flashes across her face, but is quickly subdued. Her remote, laissez faire expression returns.

"Why bring me here?"

I shrug off my jacket, hang it on the coat rack. I offer to take hers. She refuses. You can keep your gun, I tell her. She pauses then takes her coat off, revealing her weapon. I take the coat from her slowly and hang it next to mine. As she inspects the room, I remove her cell phone from the pocket of her coat and slip it into my own.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"This isn't a social call." She snorts.

No, of course it's not.

She glowers at me. I slip into the kitchen, leave her glancing through some miscellaneous art book.

I dump the cell phone into the trash compactor. Lean against the counter, suddenly dizzy. What the hell is wrong with me? Did I mix and match? Did I miss a dose? I try to shake it off. Just need some water, I tell myself, opening the faucet. I don't bother with a glass; I drink straight from the tap, dipping my head beneath the cold stream when I finish. The water stings the back of neck, dragging my attention away from everything but the rush of water in my ears and the caress of it as it slips beneath my collar. After what seems like an eternity I shut the water off and stand, tilting my head back, eyes shut against the pain building behind them.

"Turn around." Suddenly behind me, her gun pressed against the back of my neck.

I turn slowly. She rests the gun against my chest. "I could kill you. There'd be nothing to stop me." Her cold steely eyes bore into mine.

I shake my head in agreement. My chest constricts; my lungs burn. My brain signals for me to breathe, but I can't. I can't do anything, but stare into her eyes. The muzzle of the gun slides down my stomach, to my crotch. I feel the blood drain out of me. She pushes the muzzle against me.

She inches closer, her gaze fixed on me- a predator watching its prey. Her free hand does a cursory weapons check. I'm disappointed. I thought we were past all that.

The gun slides against my thigh as she steps back.

"I guess it wouldn't really be worth my while though." She teases.

I lean against the counter, air rushing into my lungs, blood rushing to my cock.

"I can appreciate you like being in charge." She tells me matter-of-factly. She pops the clip out and sets her gun beside me on the counter top. "I don't appreciate being made to jump through hoops. I think you understand, I'm a person who likes to be in control." Her eyebrow piques; my cock twitches.

"What do you think you're doing?" I finally manage.

"Just testing a theory," she says, flashing me a subdued smile. She backs away from me. "What is it you want Krycek? I get the impression from our meetings this hasn't got anything to do with the x-files. If you want to know the truth, this is starting to feel a bit personal."

I stare at her mouth, my tongue clenched in my teeth.

She moves towards me, the tip of her brown shoes touching mine.

"Is this personal?" She whispers.

Yeah, Scully, it's as personal as it fucking gets.

Her perfume is familiar, vanilla with some other flowery scent; I can't think of the name. I can't think of anything, but how close her body is to mine. I look down into her upturned face. She is clearly annoyed by my silence. I suddenly regret bringing her here.

She takes the gun off the counter. "What do think are the odds there is a round in the chamber?"

Pretty fucking good.

She rests the muzzle against my abdomen. "Should we find out?"

"If that's what you want to do."

She jabs me with the gun. "Let's go."

She stands beside the end table, the telephone in front of her. I take a seat on the couch, glancing over my shoulder at her.

"It's disconnected." My voice is flat and even, doesn't betray the pain coursing from my arm straight to the base of my neck.

She puts the phone to her ear, frowns and sets the receiver back into its cradle. She moves to the coat rack and fishes out her cell phone.

"Don't bother. I took it."

She prowls back and forth across the room, inspecting my things. I know there are things I should say, but I'm still a bit dazed, confused by her demeanor and her aloofness. She stops at the unused fireplace.

"How impersonal." She comments, noting the lack of personal mementos.

"There is nothing personal about my life."

"Not even your death?" She crosses the sparsely furnished room. "I'm certainly hoping to make that personal."

I can't help it. I find myself smiling at the presumptuousness with which she delivers her comment, stated not as probability but as fact. As if there is actually any chance of her being able to execute her threat. It's not her fault. She just doesn't know it's already over. She can't win this game.

"Why are you smiling? I suppose you don't believe I'll do it. That I won't stoop to your level."

"Scully, I would never presume to know what you are or aren't capable of." I reply, doing best to appear nonchalant, hide my discomfort. The pain shoots down my spine; I swear I can feel each vertebrae, each nerve ending.

She watches me, arms crossed sternly across her chest, her entire body screams defiance. The pain shoots from my spine to my ribs. I don't want to do this Scully. I struggle to breathe, my ribs cracking every time I inhale. I am acutely aware of my body: the tautness of my skin, the pounding of my heart, the strumming in my ears. Aware of the sweat soaked temples, my damp hands, suddenly the entire universe is contained within me, everything of consequence happening right inside me. Nothing else matters, not Scully, not her threats, not my vulnerability, nothing but my next breath, the kaleidoscope behind my closed eyelids.

"Krycek." Her heavy hand lands on my shoulder, crushing my bones.

"Krycek." Stern and intolerant.

I don't understand her anger. Is she disappointed? Maybe she expected more from me. I wonder if she has a plan, wonder if she rehearsed this tease. Has she been waiting for this moment? Did she somehow know I would bring her here? No, how could she have? A crushing weight presses at the back of my head; I know what my body needs. I chastise myself for not planning ahead.

"Krycek." She takes my chin in hand, tilts my head up. She stares into my pinpointed eyes. "What are you on?"

Shit. Goddamn her, fucking doctors.

It is sheer will that gets me off the couch. I lumber into the bedroom and head straight for the bathroom.

She catalogs the contents of my medicine cabinet with a mix of astonishment and disgust stamped on her face.

"This is quite a collection you have here." She picks up each bottle as she reads them off. "Vicodin, Percocet, OxyCotin, Darvon, Mebaral, and what this?" She removes the eyeglass case, pops it open, pulling out its aluminum foiled contents. She peels back the aluminum foil.

"Heroin?" She snorts. "What are you trying to do? Kill yourself?"

"Don't be stupid," I say, plucking the case from her hand. "I'm already dead."

I don't know what stuns her more, the words or the resignation with which they spill out of my mouth. I shut the case and place it back on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet.

"What do you want?" She asks, the hostility replaced with clinical detachment.

What do I want? I'm mute. I don't know what to say. I can't remember the last time I really knew. There used to be a plan, but it seems to have evaporated, along with everything that used to matter to me. She stares at me blankly, waiting. It dawns on me she's not asking for the meaning of life. It's just a simple question; a question of function, not of desired understanding.

I pull out a bottle and hand it to her. She taps a tablet onto her hand, places it in my open palm. I regard her expectantly. She looks into my still open hand; drops one more into my palm. I pop the tablets.

All better.

She snaps the cap back on, jams the bottle back in the cabinet, slamming the door shut. The entire cabinet rattles.

"Pathetic." She mutters, pushing past me.

I grab her arm.

She puts up a good fight, though in the end it doesn't do her much good. I still manage to wrestle her into handcuffs. She struggles against her bindings, not concerned with the futility of her efforts. She looks sexy as hell cuffed to the iron headboard of my bed: arms outstretched, body taut, her brown shoes kicking at the comforter.

I didn't realize my life was so small- two suitcases, one carry on. It doesn't take but five seconds for me to pull them out from beneath the bed. They're already packed. I sweep my toiletries into the carry on and prepare to abandon yet another apartment full of meaningless possessions.

"I'm sorry." I tell her, bags in hand. "I meant for this to turn out differently."

She glares at me, shrieks an incomprehensible expletive through her gag. Her face is flushed with rage. The headboard slams into the wall. She scoots up against the headboard, no doubt trying to ease the strain on her wrists.

It's time to go.

I know it is.

"Why did you get in the car? You had no way of knowing where I would take you."

She is still; her eyes dark and muted.

"The files, the proof? Was it something more than that?"

She turns her face away for an instant then lifts her head. She stares at me coldly. She jangles the cuffs, rattling the headboard. I can almost make out her grunt. Let me go. She tilts her head back, shaking her hair out of her face.

Come on.

I have to know.

It doesn't matter.

Yes, it does.

I set the bags down: she freezes. She pulls her knees as close to her body as she comfortably can. I approach her slowly. I reach for her and she kicks at me. I grab her ankle; she tries to squirm out of my grasp. I slip her shoe off. Her foot is beautiful, like I knew it would be.

I lean the seat back, as the stewardess asks me if I'd like a drink. We're back to that.

"Coffee," I tell her, my smile as genuine as her breasts. "That's my new addiction, now that I've quit drinking."

She laughs, her green eyes hot with interest. She slips a strand of her short brown hair behind her ear.

"Cream?" She teases. "Sugar?"

She leans in more than she needs to, allowing me a perfect view into her blouse. As I glance down, it's not her breast I notice, but her too tight blue shoes and the way her swollen feet bulge out of them.

I look up into her eyes, unable to hide my disappointment. "No thanks. I like it black."


End file.
